


choices

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Death, F/M, Gen, Memories, and choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24041998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: Eve p.o.v. // drabble // S3 // It's all about choices.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Niko Polastri
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	choices

/ / /

_“It's all about choices.”_

/

He was sitting at a bar. Yes... right, that's it, at a bar. Fingers playing with the label 'round a dark brown bottle. You weren't looking, but you were – get it? And you said something coarse, something weird and cutting, to which a friend sort-of laughed. 

And you glanced into the mirrored wall behind rows of liquor and caught his smile.

A smile like that, you thought, a smile like that could keep a girl warm.

/

You liked the way he smelled after a shower. Wet. Soapy. But still him. Still Niko.

Or when he'd bake bread – and dear god, did he bake a lot for you – with flour dusted over his pants leg and trapped under his nails. He smelled like a version of home that you only thought existed in Norman Rockwell paintings. He smelled like a place you had lost and gratefully found again.

You enjoyed hearing him shuffle around, from newspapers shifting to pots clanging to the very particular way he'd shut the front door. It was soft. It was settled. It was the sound of satisfaction, letting the day of bratty kids and field trips fall from his shoulders.

And he would hug you.  
And he would kiss your cheek.  
And he would rub your feet, socks on or off

And he loved you. He did that about as well as anyone could. Because god knows you are not easy to love, are you?

/

It's not his fault. None of this was his fault.

He knew you were strange, just a bit, and he knew that your mind moved counterclockwise to the rest of the world. He knew about your fascinations. He knew and he would smile and listen.

It's not his fault, though. None of this could ever be his fault.

He knew, somewhere deep inside, that you needed more. That you craved more. That something in you could not rest, something feverish and wild paced your rib-cage. He was patient about this beast, he was kind... he tried so hard to understand...

...and it's not his fault that he couldn't.

It's your fault. It's all yours.

Yours and yours alone.

/

There's a hum growing louder and louder within your ears. So loud that for a moment, for a very brief moment, you think something must have exploded inside of your brain. You think that you are losing your hearing. You think the world itself has ceased making any kind of sound except this deafening hum.

It's so strong that you can barely walk. It's so loud that you are taken to the ground by it.

And you try to breathe, you really do, but it just isn't happening. The air is lodged between your lips and your lungs, held in a vice by this flat-line tone that now lives in your head. You can't move either, your body heavier than lead and burrowing into the dirt, buried there.

And you watch his leg twitch. As if he is having a nightmare.  
And he used to lay just like this, asleep with the sheets caught on his hip.  
And the sun rests on his hair, on his face, on his hands – bright and blinding

_“Choices...”_

You remember the day you married him, eyes light and happy, his suit a little big and his hair beginning to get a little shaggy. You remember the press of his mouth to your own, mint mixed with a shot of bourbon, and you chuckled as he took you into his long arms.

You remember him watching you from afar even though you were in the same room. His worried gaze, his tired voice, his breath falling down like a broken thing. You turned your back on him, though. You shut him out, reaching instead for something wicked, something dangerous, something that he could never be.

You remember his unshaven cheek, rough but pleasant. You remember the sensation of it against your skin, in love and in anguish, sliding down your neck and smacked upon your palm.

You remember everything. Everything. So much of everything that you feel you are drowning in it.

Because you must be drowning. Because you can't move, you can't breathe, you can't do anything at all but sink further and further and further. And so all you can do is remember. And so all you can do is... all you can do is...

_“...it's all about choices.”_

/

All you can do is watch him die.

**[end]**

**Author's Note:**

> Dude. Really feeling for Eve, though she certainly does reap what she sows. R.I.P. Niko; I was hoping you'd get to live a nice life in Poland.  
> Thanks to 'Loner' by Burial' & 'Midland' by Arthur Beatrice. All mistakes are mine. Cheers.


End file.
